Brick and Mortar
by hiddenletter
Summary: James examines his past with Cyrus and considers their future. AU after 2.07.
1. Chapter 1

The house was silent, its sole occupant engaged fully in the act of swirling a glass of scotch. He sat in near total darkness, the only light coming from the television, muted. He paused, drained his glass, and allowed it to come down heavy on the side table. From next to where the glass fell James picked up a small black and yellow memory card and stared off into the darkness of the living room.

* * *

Cyrus Beene had a specific favorite seat on the campaign trail bus, and thus, so did James Novak. This placed the journalist directly behind Olivia Pope, which gave him the added bonus of being able to overhear her various machinations for the future president, shared with the man next to her. A month ago James would have been able to confidently state, for the record, this was the reason he chose this seat. Now, as he sat with his laptop, trying and failing to calm his nerves by editing his most recent article, he was unsure of his motivations entirely.

_He's a solid decade older than you, perhaps more,_ James thought angrily, glaring at the back of Cyrus' head_. He does nothing but step on your toes. Dating him would be career suicide, even if Grant does eek out a win. Especially if he does._ Additionally, although he knew Cyrus was gay, he doubted anyone else was aware. He had been looking for a story there, asking around about the future Chief of Staff, but no one he talked to had anything to say on the topic of Cyrus' private life. His information might fill an index card: head of the political science department at Georgetown, lives in Woodley Park, offered a dean position at Harvard, declined. Olivia, his longtime protégé, refused to divulge more, and beyond his resume James could find nothing.

There were some things he knew about the man that he wouldn't find in print. Cyrus enjoyed red wine, hated scotch, didn't snore, owns about fifteen identical sweaters, never read fiction. He seemed to have no particular favorite foods, had to have a pastry to go with his coffee or the effort seemed wasted, did not shirk from a confrontation. He seemed to want nothing more than to be in charge, and Grant's staff was more than happy to oblige. Of the people on this campaign, James thought, Olivia and Cyrus seemed far better suited to run this country than Grant and Mellie.

Two weeks ago, after the rally in Kansas City, he and Cyrus argued heatedly about Grant's numbers in Missouri. It began as a clarifying question and answer session between several reporters and Cyrus, but had ended with just the two of them, red-faced and angry. James had, in the middle of his sentence, reached out and gripped Cyrus' arm. For an electric moment nothing happened. They simply stood, breathing the same air. Cyrus' eyes were glued to James' hand on his sleeve, and James' heart beat wildly in his chest. Slowly he moved his hand down to rest by his side, and Cyrus met his eyes. Then, as if pulled by an invisible string, Cyrus turned around and walked away.

James sighed and rubbed his eyes. They would be at their hotel soon, and he was sick with nerves at the thought of talking to Cyrus. Every night since that moment he intended to ask Cyrus to have a drink with him, and each night he let the opportunity go. During the day Cyrus vacillated between completely ignoring him and being ice cold. If he asked and Cyrus balked, James may be kicked off the bus. If he asked, Cyrus agreed, and things went well, he may be in for a completely different kind of hell. James closed his laptop and rested his head against the seat back, watching the icy cornfields pass by.

James lifted his suitcase off the sidewalk outside of the parked bus and waited for Cyrus pick up his bag, taking a deep, calming breath. Finally, he descended the bus stairs, Olivia right behind him.

"Cyrus, can I speak with you?" James hoped he sounded confident, and less like a sixteen year old asking for a curfew extension.

"Sure?" Cyrus replied, eyebrows lifted and head cocked. He turned to Olivia. "I'll see you in the morning. At least it won't be an early start."

"Goodnight, Cyrus. James."

James smiled politely and waited for Olivia to move out of earshot.

"What, James? You cannot possibly be hounding me at ten o'clock at night."

"No, no. It's not work. It's… well." James stammered, staring at Cyrus' bemused face. "I wanted to see if you had to time grab a drink with me, tomorrow night. No work. Just… a social call."

Cyrus' eyes narrowed. "A social call. "

James breathed out heavily. "Look, I just want to talk to you. Not about the governor, not about pancake breakfasts and town halls. I just… want to have a drink with you. Unwind. You look like you could use it."

"I'll take that under advisement. Tomorrow night, then. The hotel bar will be crowded. I'll find a place."

"Tomorrow night, then," James quietly agreed, watching as Cyrus turned and marched toward the hotel, shaking his head.

They managed to avoid each other the next day until about seven, when Cyrus told James to meet him in the hotel lobby at nine. When he arrived, James was both pleased and surprised to see that Cyrus had put on a suit.

"There's a nice restaurant nearby that has a quiet bar. Sounded like the perfect place to have this little talk I'm so in need of," Cyrus huffed, climbing into the back of a sedan. James merely rolled his eyes and followed him into the car.

Halfway through his second scotch James was afraid he had misjudged Cyrus. He was certain he'd loosen up away from the campaign, and with a few glasses of red wine, but the man seemed more uptight than ever. Sure, they'd had a sound debate on the intricacies of Washington's local politics, the housing market, and front-yard vegetable gardens. He still felt the tension from two weeks ago, but now James seriously doubted whether he'd ever act on those feelings. He was resigned, considered it a dodged bullet, and let himself enjoy Cyrus' company.

A moment like that, though, seldom passes without a reason, James mused. The drinking was over, the check paid, and they were about to leave their seats and go back to the way things were, campaign manager and reporter, paths to diverge once more. Another minute and his chance was gone. James, emboldened by the thought, reached a hand over and placed it on Cyrus's knee, his eyes scanning his face.

Cyrus stopped fiddling with the pen on the bar and took a deep breath. His free left hand moved down to remove James' hand from his knee, but stopped. _What am I so afraid of,_ he thought, his hand now on James', his eyes closed.

He opened them to see James intently focused on his face. Cyrus took his hand off James's and rubbed his face.

"No one can know. If we pursue these… social calls. No one can know."

"I know," James replied. "It would be a nightmare for both of us. But I enjoyed spending time with you tonight. I want to see you again."

"I would like that." Cyrus stood up and put on his coat, James following suit.

With a furtive glance around the bar, checking for any familiar faces, James stepped forward and placed a quick kiss on Cyrus' mouth.

"I would like that very much."

Weeks passed, and James and Cyrus saw each other when they could, fighting more often than not for the thrill of the make-up sex that followed. James had his suspicions that his was not the only secret relationship on this campaign trail, but his efforts to follow Olivia around were thwarted by Cyrus. Most things, it seemed, were destined to be thwarted by Cyrus.

James stood outside the older man's hotel door, banging the wood with his fist loud enough to wake the dead. Clenched in his other hand was a copy of _The New York Times, _freshly printed.

"_WHAT." _Cyrus yanked open the door and hissed at James, looking up and down the hallway. "What in the fuck can I do for you at this fine fucking hour?"

"You gave Charlotte White this scoop about Reston's tax statements and not me? _Charlotte White?! _You KNOW I can't stand her! She's barely literate but she has Cyrus Beene on speed dial?!" James glared across the doorway at Cyrus. After taking in his face for a moment he huffed and crossed his arms. "Fine. I know where I stand. I hope the Reston bus has an _empty seat!_"

Cyrus reached out to grab James by the lapels of his bathrobe and kissed him on the mouth, effectively silencing him. After a moment, James returned the kiss, breaking away to add, "This isn't over!" as Cyrus pushed him into his hotel room.

On the other end of the hallway, Olivia smiled to herself as she ducked back into her room.

"Was that James?" Fitz asked sleepily from the bed.

"Yeah. I knew Cyrus was going to take some heat from that article."

"But it bought Cy more time. You know he's not ready to have a public relationship yet. Hell, I don't know if he'll ever be ready."

Olivia crawled back into bed beside Fitz, putting her head on his shoulder. "I think James knows about us. Or at least is curious."

"But if he and Cyrus are serious…"

"He won't be so curious."

"This wasn't my choice, you know," Cyrus' voice carried into James' ear. James lifted his head to watch Cyrus flattening his hair in the mirror. "I tried to avoid you."

"Why would you want to avoid me?"

"To avoid this. Hiding. This isn't what you deserve."

"We don't have to be like this forever." James leaned back against the headboard. "After the election, we can go back to Washington and be together. I know we've never talked about it, but _we could._ We don't have to hide."

Cyrus walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, touching the duvet with his fingertips. "Saying and doing are two separate things. I've never been openly gay. I know you can't imagine that, but it's true. It's just not something I've ever wanted."

"And now?"

"Now I imagine you… _fussing_ around my house. Now I imagine sharing a closet and a bathroom." Cyrus stood abruptly. He took a step, stopped, and covered his face with his hand. A moment passed and he composed himself. James watched all of this, rapt. Finally, Cyrus turned to face him.

"I love you. I've loved you for a long time. And I don't think it's fair, and I don't think it's a good idea, but it's done. I fell in love. But I can't come out yet, and I …"

James slowly got up from the bed and crossed the room to stand in front of Cyrus. He reached out and put his hand on Cyrus' cheek, watching as the older man relaxed and closed his eyes.

"It's OK, Cy," James murmured. "I love you too."

Cyrus pulled him into a tight embrace, resting his face on James' shoulder.

"Everything thing else," James continued, "we'll figure out back in Washington." James stood back, his hands on Cyrus' upper arms. "I'm pretty anxious, too. It could mean the end of my career. We'd be creating this whole new idea, testing the water." James reached up to touch Cyrus' face once more. "But people are so terrified of you, I don't think it's going to matter."

Cyrus shrugged his shoulders and pulled away, walking to where his sweater was neatly laid out on the arm of a chair. James watched as he pulled the sweater over his head, then walked over and adjusted the collar of Cyrus' button-down.

"I do what I can to maintain fear in the hearts of the masses." Cyrus looked down at his watch. "If you don't leave now our little parade will have a much earlier starting date then planned."

* * *

James stared down at the memory card in his hand. Cyrus had been strange on election night – victorious, yes, but distant. James had thought it odd in the moment but was quickly distracted by celebratory sex. Now he knew why. Before James could contemplate further he heard a noise at the front door – surely Cyrus coming home to change. It was after five in the morning. James stood and walked toward the stairs, meeting Cyrus halfway. The older man was still in his tuxedo, and at the sight of James his face crumpled. Cyrus reached out.

For a split second, James hesitated. He'd spent hours going over and over his relationship, mentally reviewing every facet, feeling its weight – questioning his reasoning, his ability to love, the depth of emotion he felt. He wanted to go upstairs, pack a bag, leave. He wanted out. The magnitude of what he discovered was terrifying, overwhelming. He met Cyrus' eyes, full of pain and longing, and he gave himself over to the man, felt himself being pulled into his embrace.


	2. Chapter 2

James tapped his pen against his desk, staring off into the distance. It had been an interesting, difficult year, and now that he was back home in Washington he felt unsettled. Part of that was because Cyrus was being... well, Cyrus. All talk of cohabitation had ceased, although he was spending more nights in Cyrus' tiny, outrageously expensive house than his own apartment. Watching Cyrus meticulously organize the spices in the kitchen, straighten out the files he brought home in a perfect line on his desk, James' heart constricted. How difficult a man was Cyrus, how difficult to love, but James' affection for him was intense. It was worth it, James thought. The quiet way Cyrus would touch his hair, would hand him his coat, would kiss his forehead.

With a nod of his head James reached out and picked up the telephone receiver, checking a number on his desk before dialing. Almost instantly a woman picked up on the other end, and she and James exchanged pleasantries and talked briefly.

Hanging up the phone, James stood, grabbed his coat off the back of his chair, and walked out of the press corps fishbowl. He shut the door gently behind him and headed off down the hallway.

James slipped into the small office and shut the door behind him. "Hey, Cy."

"You know you don't have to schedule an appointment to see me," Cyrus began. James held up a hand.

"I absolutely do," James rebutted with a frown. "Where were you last night?"

"I'm really sorry about that. I should have called earlier."

"Let me answer my own question. You were with the French ambassador last night, an engagement that I am apparently unworthy to attend."

"James..."

"Cyrus!" James folded himself into a chair facing his... boyfriend? partner? ex? and crossed his legs. "How long did you debate taking me? Because you TOLD ME we were attending a dinner at the French embassy, and then ten minutes before you were supposed to pick me up you had to solve some crisis elsewhere? Have you forgotten who I am? Did you think I wouldn't find out? No, I'm asking. Do you think I'm a fucking idiot?"

James uncrossed his legs and stood, walking to the window. "I didn't come here to fight with you," James continued quietly. "I sat in my cubicle for an hour this morning planning the logistics of our breakup."

"James, I'm sorry. I didn't know how much it would upset you." James turned to look at Cyrus' face, now creased with worry.

"You're always sorry, Cy. You promised me, YOU PROMISED," James hissed, eyes narrowed, "that things would be different back in DC! You grandstand when I'm angry, you shower me with gifts, you _love me_, I'm the _love of your life_, you can't stop thinking about me!" James waved his arms to accompany his speech. Cyrus stood, glaring, but James cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"You love me and that's MY problem, because I let you. I know you love me. I do believe that." James took a deep breath and put his hands in his pockets. "I came here to ask you to get coffee with me. Outside of the White House. Take a break."

Cyrus stared into James' eyes for a moment before reaching for his coat.

"What made you decide to stay?"

James reached out a hand and grasped Cyrus' coat sleeve.

"I didn't want to leave. I want you to stay with me, to be unashamed to be with me. I want..."

Cyrus grabbed James' face between his hands and kissed him hard on the mouth.

"I will make it worth your time. I will."

"Start with coffee."

Winter in Washington is an undefined season of spring-like weather interspersed with bitterly cold days, each day an enigma of rapidly changing temperatures. With hardly any snow, most winter days were signified only by the need for a scarf to hide from the constant wind. The two men stepped out onto the sidewalk, happy to be the anonymous public for an hour.

James looked up toward the sun, letting the weak light warm his face. Cyrus buried his hands in his coat pockets and sighed.

"Brandon is on a rampage today."

"From Georgetown? About what?"

Cyrus happily detailed the drama of his replacement, and James allowed himself to relax into a familiar cocoon. It was easy to believe that Cyrus could change, it was easy to convince himself that the man would eventually want to be seen in public with him. It was easy. And James knew he could never give up having such a close connection to the Oval. The power Cyrus would soon wield, it was intoxicating. James glanced over at him, hands waving as he ranted about the political science department at Georgetown and it's various machinations. What would it take, James thought, to make me walk away?

The inauguration was fast approaching, and although Cyrus had not explicitly invited James, that didn't stop the younger man from scheduling secret tux fittings in the weeks before the event. James had drawn this mental line in the sand - if Cyrus did not take him to the inauguration he would leave. He kept this ultimatum to himself and went about his days, typing furiously into the night, annoying Cyrus, and attending his secret fittings. The transition government, and James' inside source, had filled the journalist's days with work, keeping him occupied and his mind off the fact that Cyrus was even further away than normal.

"What's this?" Cyrus asked, holding out the garment bag that contained James' new tux. James looked up from his laptop and across the room to where the older man stood. When he caught sight of the dark bag he sighed, closed his laptop and sat it next to him on his large bed.

"That's why I never invite you to my house," James snapped. Cyrus merely raised his eyebrows and continued holding up the bag.

"It's my tuxedo for the inaugural balls."

Cyrus laughed joylessly. "No." At the look on James' face he continued. "I didn't even know you wanted to go! And it's _tomorrow. _I can't possible prepare for the onslaught that would beset me if I took you as my date to the _inaugural ball_."

"_Balls, _as in several, and you are taking me as your guest. We've been dating for almost a year. We've been practically living together since the election. This has gone on _long enough._"

"I'm a leader of the Republican Party. It's complicated."

"It's not goddamned complicated!" James exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. "You don't want to deal with standing up for yourself! You don't want to deal with people talking about you! But _guess what!_ People know you're gay! People _know we're together!" _

James stalked through the apartment, Cyrus on his heels. When he reached the front door he grabbed his coat from the rack and looked Cyrus in the eye.

"You had better not be here when I get back," James hissed, throwing his coat over his shoulders. With that, he left the apartment, slamming the door in Cyrus' face.

_The place seems much smaller without James_, Cyrus thought on his fifth trip through the empty apartment. His immediate response to the slamming of doors and the issuing of ultimatums was a temper tantrum, and the vase still lay broken on the floor of the foyer. But this quickly gave way to a deeper, more uncomfortable feeling that Cyrus was trying to avoid giving consideration – fear. He was afraid that James would actually leave him, and if he lingered on the idea, he could understand why.

_Have I not lied? Did I not fail to keep my promise?_ Cyrus drifted over to the window and picked up a framed photo of James and his sister. _Did I not promise him that we could be a public couple? Did I not sell him some grand Washingtonian dream of a gay power couple in order to keep him happy and in my bed? _He placed the photo back on the side table and wandered into James' bedroom. He stopped and looked around at the bed that he and James had recently been occupying, almost immediately remade by the younger man. Cyrus walked over to the dresser and slowly pulled out the drawer containing James' socks. _Why would I have lied to him, _he thought, gaze wandering over the rows of dress socks, organized by color and pattern. _If I hadn't meant to follow through. He has nothing to offer me, aside from the occasional useful article in the Post. Why would I lie. _

"I want to be with him," Cyrus muttered, touching a pair of silky paisley socks. "I want to marry him." He tested out the way the words felt in his mouth. "This is my husband, James." Cyrus reached out and ran his hand through the carefully sorted socks until they were in complete disarray, and then slid the drawer shut.

Cyrus found him the next day at the Constitution Gardens pond, where James frequently came to mope after a bad day. Cyrus commented on more than one occasion that it truly was the saddest place in Washington, and worthy of a good mope. James sat off to the side, staring at the pitiful pond, only half full of water, and its several equally sad ducks. He did a double take when he saw Cyrus approach, only to quickly recover with a shake of his head and a narrowing of his eyes.

"Fuck you, Cyrus," James spat, standing up. Cyrus pushed him back down onto the bench with one hand and sat next to the fuming man.

"I've never really considered you my boyfriend," Cyrus began. James snarled, but Cyrus held up a hand to stop him. "I never saw you like that. Boyfriend implies temporary, transient. Unimportant. You've always been important to me. You've always held your own with me. Do you know how rare that is? Normally I just terrorize men for a few months at a time before growing bored and moving on. You, you fought back. You fought me tooth and nail. I had to kick you off the bus three times. Yet you kept showing up."

"I had a job to do, Cyrus."

"No, you showed up for me. I didn't realize it until yesterday, that you actually loved me." Cyrus glanced at James, and then went back to staring across the pond. "You have a lot to gain from this relationship. I'm a good source for you. I have a lot of valuable contacts. You find power very sexy. I think that, until yesterday, I had convinced myself that you were only interested in my job."

James turned his body to face Cyrus. "What made you change your mind?"

"Your insane fit yesterday night."

James' face turned red. "Insane? _Really?_ Because one of us returned home to a broken vase and a fucked up sock drawer and it _wasn't you."_

"Come on, " Cyrus said, standing up and holding out a hand. "We have a few inaugural balls to attend, and I'm done sharing for one night."

"You're fixing my sock drawer."

"Like hell."

* * *

James lay in bed the next night beside a restless Cyrus. The news cycle surrounding the shooting had not lightened in the slightest, and Grant showed no signs of waking from his coma. James turned on his side and smoothed Cyrus' hair with his hand. The older man's brow relaxed at the touch, and James surprised himself by beginning to cry.

_What would it take to walk away?_


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:** Just a little chapter. One more to go! If you have suggestions for one-shots about our favorite MFEO OTP, PM me. I have a few ideas, but I love prompts!

* * *

A glance at his phone confirmed his suspicions - another missed call from David Rosen. James ran a hand over his hair and sat down on a bench in Lafayette Square, watching other White House staffers feed the ducks. He took a deep drink from his cup of coffee and wondered where to go from here.

He had several options. One, he could tell David Rosen the truth. _And put Cy in jail, completely destroy his entire life, and leave him miserably alone._ Ok. Two, he could leave Cyrus. _While his best friend languishes in a hospital bed._ At the thought of packing his things into a suitcase, turning off the lights for the last time, leaving, James' stomach twisted into a knot. _Goddamn him!_ James thought furiously. _Even if I did leave I have no doubt that he would track me down._ James leaned back against the bench and looked up at the late afternoon sky. _That would actually be pretty romantic._ Three, he tells Cyrus that he knows. His reaction to which James could only guess. He finished his cup of coffee and stood to leave, walking toward 17th Street to catch a cab home.

* * *

Two weeks after the inauguration, which James now referred to as their coming out ball just to get on Cyrus' nerves, James packed up his belongings, broke the lease on his Dupont Circle apartment, and moved into Cyrus's house in Woodley Park. James looked around his empty apartment for the last time, feeling no small amount of shock at finally leaving the place. This had been the home of not only him but four ex-boyfriends and the starting-off point for at least a dozen affairs. It was his first respectable apartment, paid for each month with his _Post_ salary, and leaving felt a little like giving up his freedom.

_Which is exactly what I'm doing_, James thought, shaking his head. He moved one last bag to the hallway with his foot and locked the door. _Cyrus wouldn't be caught dead here, sure. But I think he only wants me in his perfect little neighborhood, in his perfect little house, to keep an eye on me and show his bastard Republican minions that I fall in line._ James continued nudging the bag down the hallway, to where his friend Daniel was waiting.

"Decided this bag wasn't worth the effort of bending at the knees?" Daniel commented, reaching down and hoisting the overnight bag onto his shoulder. He looked at James' furrowed brow and sighed. "A little late to get cold feet now, Jim. Your Republican overlord is waiting."

"I don't have cold feet. God knows I've been the one pressuring Cyrus to let me move in. You would not believe the amount of bullshit I had to go through to get an invitation to the inaugural ball."

James paused outside of Daniel's car, looking back over his shoulder at the building he called home for twenty years. "It's just… "

Daniel laughed. "It's just that you're moving to _Woodley Park_ to live with your older sugar daddy and you don't know what to say to make that sound better."

James glared and climbed into the car. "He's not my sugar daddy! I have a job!"

"Not a job that would ever pay for a house in Woodley Park. Or in Dupont. Or anywhere." Daniel turned the ignition and pulled the car away from the curb. "You're lucky you moved to DC during the height of the crack epidemic and found a rent-controlled apartment or you would have been homeless."

"Yes, I thank Marion Barry daily. Are you done? I have an appointment to sell my soul and I don't want to be late."

* * *

Cyrus was waiting in their usual spot in Lafayette Square, a nice bench huddled up alongside an ancient oak tree. He caught sight of Olivia hurrying along the sidewalk, two coffees and a small paper bag clutched in her hands. He stood to greet her with his customary kiss on the cheek.

"So!" Olivia began, sitting down on the bench beside her mentor. "Four weeks of domestic bliss?"

Cyrus scoffed. "He's slowly redecorating the house, one room at a time. His friends are loud, obnoxious drunks that I am forced to play nice with because in addition to being loud, obnoxious drunks they are also highly influential journalists."

Olivia laughed. "They're his _friends,_ Cy! Part of the package deal."

Cyrus frowned and chewed his croissant. "They aren't friends. They're my nightmare. And although he hasn't explicitly stated this fact, I am under the impression that he's slept with half of them."

Olivia grinned. "What about your friends? Every time I have dinner with you he's surrounded by political wives."

"He hates them, too. It's good fun." Cyrus took a drink of his coffee. "How's the new office working out?"

"It's new. It's good. We've already gotten a few high-profile clients."

"So I've seen." Cyrus looked over at Olivia, who was slowly turning her coffee cup between her hands. "You do your best work when you're unencumbered." He broke off, staring out into the park. "I'm not sure if I should mention this to you. I'm not sure if I believe it. But James mentioned a pet theory to me a while ago, and it makes sense now." He paused, shook his head. "Never mind. I have to get back."

Olivia smiled at Cyrus as she exchanged promises to meet up for dinner and to call, but the smile slid from her face as he walked away.

* * *

"James, we've discussed this."

"And I want to discuss it again! There is _not enough room._"

"You may find room if you explore the option of taking your things out of boxes!" Cyrus cried, kicking the nearest offender with a hollow thump. "Is this a trial run? Are you waiting for a new apartment to come onto the market?"

James sat down on the edge of the bed. "Move some of your things into storage."

"No. I've already opened up two closets and am more than willing to rearrange furniture. But YOU wanted to move in with ME. You need to give some things away. We don't need two of everything. You have to compromise."

"You're telling _me_ I have to compromise, Mr. _Everything I own is better than yours_?!"

Cyrus rubbed his face with a hand. "That is a true statement, James."

James crossed his arms over his chest and tried his best to look angry, but the stern expression only held for a moment before he started to laugh.

"Fine. Fine! I see my twenty-year-old Mr. Coffee is no longer appreciated in this relationship." James sat down on a box of books.

Cyrus navigated the room to stand in front of him, looking for all the world like a cat with a canary.

"What, Cy? I know that face. What do you have planned?"

Cyrus smiled. "What if we made this easy on ourselves?"

James' eyes narrowed. "What did you have in mind?"

Cyrus put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "Well… people traditionally purchase new homes after marriage, do they not?"

James' jaw dropped. "Cyrus Rutherford Beene…"

Cyrus sat down on a box opposite of him. "I've been thinking about it for a while. You'd have to work outside the White House, but you could quit and teach, or write a book." Cyrus looked into James' watery eyes. "You wanna get married?"


End file.
